Pensieve
by Apocalypticat
Summary: The memories of Minerva McGonagall, in which Albus Dumbledore greatly figures. Response to the 100prompts challenge. ADMM!
1. Beginnings

**A/N: Just a fun little project! A response to the 100-prompts challenge, where the author has to respond to 100 different words. Will probably be pretty plotless, but will definitely involve ADMM. Chapters will be of varying length. Enjoy!**

**001: Beginnings**

The castle rose before her, grim against the grey sky, seeming somehow far more imposing than it had to the eyes of a student. Her eyes moved automatically to find Gryffindor Tower, daring the air. The moving thunderclouds seemed to vaunt above it, asking her how on earth she could have aspired to teach here. The Headmaster's tower rose above the rest, and with a small jolt, she realised that she was presuming to fill a post he had started in. The urge to get back into the carriage and ride back to the station was overwhelming.

"Ah, Minerva."

All at once, the object of her thoughts was standing on the main threshold, beaming past his half-moon spectacles. She could not restrain herself from staring; the last time she had seen him had been on the shoulders of a shrieking crowd, as they bore him away to victory celebrations. More years than she cared to think of had passed since then, but he seemed almost timeless - the auburn of his hair was undimmed, and, if anything, his beard appeared more luxuriant than ever. The blue eyes held their old twinkle, but the light was distant - was he remembering Grindelwald as well? If his memories tallied with hers, it made her appointment all the more inexplicable; who could set responsibility on the shoulders of a girl who he had had to rescue, not once but twice? Between them was a small flight of steps leading up to the doors, and she found it strangely appropriate; he was raised above her more ways than one. To set foot even on the lowest step seemed unforgivable, and she lingered, unsure, conscious of her battered umbrella and untidy bun. His mouth twitched, and she remembered that he was still waiting for a response.

"Thank you for the appointment, Headmaster," she blurted. "It means a lot to me."

One eyebrow quirked. "A great pleasure to hear. But there is no need to be so formal. You are welcome to call me Albus."

She blinked, and thought it far too daring. He was waiting, but the steps still held an absurd symbolism. The blue eyes clouded. To her horror, he began to descend towards her, hand outstretched-

-To fall, slipping on the stone in a flurry of embroidered robes and assorted medallions, limbs akimbo, beard flying through the air-

-To land, face down, at her feet.

Later on, he himself saw a metaphor.

"After all, that is where I remained."


	2. Middles

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Mugglemin, I was a little doubtful about the ending as well. I did not intend it to be a change of POV, but rather something he later on said. Scarab Dynasty, you made me laugh. HMS Frivolity and Felines, yes, I do intend to do it in order, if I can! On we go!  
**

**002: Middles**

She was still crying by the time Headmaster Dippet returned from Professor Dumbledore's office. His frail fingers skittered across the desk, moving aside papers and forms, and there was a wooden creak as he sat down. Without looking up, she knew that his face would be ashen, and that he was trembling. Her hands balled in her lap. 

"Minerva."

The name sounded awkward, as if his mouth was trying to shape itself around a foreign word. Her ears resounded with the memory of someone else whispering her name, with much greater familiarity, and this was what she was about to lose-

"Dear child, look at me."

The wobble in his voice at the word 'child' forced her chin up. His white cheeks were quivering, and the skeletal hands gripped the sides of the desk; she could sense the panic at being out of control. Her tears heated, and burnt her face.

"I - I must ask a few questions."

She heard herself speak. "You're going to fire him, aren't you?"

Her stomach clenched. A spasm shook the Headmaster, bending him as though with the weight of years. He gazed feebly at her, the light shining through his wispy hair.

_You need him as well. _

"That depends on how you answer my questions… child," he said, with another wobble.

The fate of Professor Dumbledore, the most popular teacher in the school, and the lone torch against the darkness, was thrust into her lap. Her mouth went dry. Dippet let go of the desk and clasped his hands together, as if trying to compose himself. Once again, his voice betrayed him.

"To your knowledge, did you… encourage… what happened?"

His desperation was like a physical thing, seizing her by the shoulders. Words failed her.

"When did this begin?"

The office spun away from her - she was back in Professor Dumbledore's rooms, watching pupils contracting from blue irises, mere inches away, and her lips were still burning, and she was staring at her teacher - and his face had her shock written all over it, shock at what line had just been crossed - and that was when Professor Merrythought had dropped her books and started shrieking, still standing in the fireplace-

Dippet's face came back into focus. The question was impossible to answer, she thought dully. She did not know what he was asking. _This. This_ was Professor Dumbledore handing back an essay with a smile twitching the corners of his mouth, _this_ was blue eyes twinkling, _this_ was the smell of sherbet lemons… Loopy handwriting stood out at her, on a school report: _even when Minerva is unsure of the answer, she attempts the question with boundless enthusiasm. _Her mind fogged, but she spoke:

"That _was_ the beginning, sir."

In truth, it was more like the middle.


	3. Ends

**A/N: Thank you, all! Mugglemin, I agree with you about the teacher-student relationship. What happened was just a one-off. **

**Here's another. I'm not too pleased with it, but ah well...  
**

**003: Ends**

His absence kept her away from the concealed door, barring her from it as effectively as a hex. Everything about the room was theirs - the password was theirs, the bed was theirs, the furniture, the secret. To enter it alone was to violate the air they breathed together. The chamber was a place locked inside her, an unstained image to be held in the mind whenever he was away. He would return to find the bed still dishevelled, and his eyes would sparkle, and he would say:"I see we are not forgotten."

To enter the chamber was to enter a realm invisible to the prying eyes of the outside world. Absurd ideas such as professionalism could be left behind. A detached part of her mind expressed surprise at that idea. Minerva McGonagall, abandoning professionalism? Not quite, for Minerva McGonagall did not exist in the chamber; only two Professor Dumbledores conversed over tea, or made the bed so as to untidy it again…

Weeks passed. This was but another absence - he was called away on business, on an Order mission, on a teaching conference. She tied her bun more tightly. When she spoke, she thought of the chamber.

"Minerva, I'm always here if you want to talk," Rolanda said, one day in August.

"About what?"

There was nothing to talk about except the War, which thundered its way onwards as always. Letters passed between her and Order, and there were meetings to attend at Grimmauld Place. She argued, and gestured over diagrams and maps, hugging the secret to herself. Moody stumbled in and out of the office, effusive with information, but still completely ignorant. Energy swept her up and drove her. Potter's movements occupied her thoughts at night, gave her an exciting instability that was fleeting, as there would always be a point of gravity in the room, when he returned. The thought came to her whenever she passed the door-

Silence. A void gaped.

"Minerva, talk to us," Poppy said.

Foolishly, in a moment of utter numbness, she gave in.

Roses blinded her. They curled around chair-legs, hung from the bed canopy, gleamed with preservative magic. From the mantelpiece, blue eyes twinkled from a photo, so that she barely saw the woman next to him. The duvet was crumpled, and his weight still indented the sheets. The air was perfumed, and an enchanted piano began to play Chopin, for this was the end, this was the last outpouring, and for the first time, debilitating weakness had her sinking down onto the bed, with the female Professor Dumbledore, who had never really existed, as separate entity sinking down with her-

A small black box sat on the pillow. Her vision blurred, but her hands were steady as she opened it, to reveal the engagement ring inside.

"Yes," she said, but he was already in his sepulchre.


	4. Insides

**A/N: Now I pretend nothing with this one. Just pure fun.  
**

**004: Insides**

"I will not insult your memory by giving you a tour, my dear. How about a cup of tea in my office?"

"Yes, please, Headmaster."

The sense of being guilty of an atrocious presumption still remained with Minerva as she and her employer left her new office and attached rooms. On the other hand, her feet were remembering the old corridors, and there was some comfort to be garnered from the fact that she had twice turned instinctively in the direction of the Gryffindor Common Room. In more than one way, she remained a student, being led around the castle by Professor Dumbledore.

He made a face and walked ahead of her. "Albus."

She said nothing, yet his fall had softened the air between them, even with the embarrassment it had caused. His blue eyes twinkled as they watched her; the subsequent laughter still seemed to twitch his lips. She had been horrified, but he had chuckled, and she had not expected it - had forgotten what he was like, that he was not a distant hero swollen by glory but her kindly old professor who chuckled and offered her sherbet lemons…

…And whom her lips had brushed…

The memory invaded so suddenly that she felt as if she had been winded. They had reached the seventh floor, and she realised that she was going into the office she had once been forcibly dragged to by Professor Merrythought, and would probably sit in the same chair as the one she had quivered in in front of Dippet-

'Albus' was unforgivable.

The blood rushed to her cheeks, and she lowered her head. Her companion appeared not to notice, and continued to chatter.

"I assume that you have read the papers sent you?"

"Of course."

"Ah, no doubt, Minerva. But we shall need to discuss the specifics of your contract. I shall need your signature a few times. It is all very tedious, but necessary, I'm afraid."

As they arrived at the gargoyles guarding the office, her old apprehension came back with a vengeance. Dippet's strained face flashed in her mind's eye. The Headmaster ascended the spiral staircase before her, and was conspicuously silent. Had he remembered as well?

The office was considerably different from how it had been in Dippet's time. A set of purple velvet curtains had replaced the grey faded ones that she remembered, and the desk was weighted with clutter, whilst Dippet had always been scrupulously tidy. Curious little ornaments stood on every surface, attracting examination, and an elegant armoire had replaced the clumsy old cabinet. There was a warmth about the room, and an energy.

His sudden stillness drew her eyes back to him. His back was turned towards her, with the auburn hair tumbling down. Her discomfort returned, and the silence stretched-

"My dear."

Her spine shuddered and snapped to attention, for his voice had been a heavy, thick growl…

He turned, slowly, and shock held her frozen. The expression on that kindly face was predatory; every line stiffened with desire. The blue eyes were darkened, sweeping her form up and down with the power of a physical caress, sending a creeping heat though her body, burning with a hunger. Professor Dumbledore was gone; this was someone else, someone decidedly masculine - and not only aware of it but set ablaze with it, ablaze with something primal and ancient and undeniable…

Her tongue wagged irrelevantly. "Pardon? Headmaster-"

_"Albus,"_ he whispered.

She realised numbly that it had always been there - there was a sensuality about the arch of his eyebrows, the curve of his nose, the largeness of those groping eyes-

"A-Albus…"

"Minerva, I think you have forgotten."

Merlin knew how she spoke. "Forgive me, I don't-"

"-Understand," he hissed, and he dropped into his chair, drooping and slumping, draping himself over the arms like a cat curving itself round a pillar. "You understood better than me, back then."

A spark leapt, igniting a fire. "Nothing was planned."

He did not respond, but his fingers crept towards the clasp of his robes. Another tremor shot through her.

"I…"

She stopped; purple and gold robes were slipping to the floor. The undershirt parted, and fell. The Headmaster's Seal gleamed against his naked chest, swinging hypnotically. Auburn glinted in the light of a sunset. Her own fingers imitated his. One long finger crooked and beckoned. She stumbled forward, and the beard met her cheek as hands passed through her head, undoing the bun, and a hanging thread of her existence was picked up, and woven to its conclusion…

Of course, that never actually happened. They had tea and, with it, a pleasant conversation on a variety of topics. They talked about the weather, about the curriculum, about her Auror exploits. She signed some papers. He offered her sherbet lemons, which she refused. He walked her back to her rooms, and reminded her to compile some lesson plans. He left, and she walked around her rooms both as a cat and as a woman, familiarising herself. Then she went to bed.

She knew that vivid dreams were caused by eating too much cheese. 


	5. Outsides

**A/N: Ugh, I personally hate this one. But I'm doing these in order. **

**I'msoMAD - Yes, I keep jumping back and forth. 001 and 004 are on the same day, 002 takes place decades before, and 003 at the end, so to speak.  
**

**005: Outsides**

"Good morning."

"Good morning, Headmaster." She was halfway into her seat next to Albus before she noticed the unwelcome visitor sitting on her other side. The sight of the inspector sent a cold bolt through her - for the eyes that watched her over thick, round spectacles were feminine, and the pouting mouth was daubed with lipstick. The fact that she was shaken made her even more so; why did the fact that this inspector was a woman bother her? There was no reason for the scrutiny to be any more personal, or the criticism to be any more biting. No, she was merely surprised; all previous inspectors had been fat, balding old men. Pointedly turning her head away, she reached for the toast.

The students were chattering and laughing as usual, but she had the odd feeling of being somehow trapped in a bubble of silence. The sound of the toast against her teeth seemed obscenely loud, and the creak of the inspector's chair was painfully obvious. Blood rushed to her cheeks; she felt herself being looked at. Surely she couldn't be evaluated on how she ate her breakfast? No, of course not - she was being silly, and paranoid - or was it because of the emptiness that was entirely unrelated to the inspector? She sneaked a glance to the side.

Albus was engrossed in the _Daily Prophet,_ seemingly completely forgetful of his boiled egg. Looking over his shoulder, she tried to read the headlines, hoping that there would be something irritating enough to comment on. She found herself looking more at the half-moons than at the paper. The blue eyes scanned resolutely. She gave up, and took another bite of her toast. On the edge of her vision, she saw the inspector's hand drift through her hair. The food became a rubbery morass in her mouth - the gesture had been so… deliberate…

At last, Albus cleared his throat, and she sat up straight.

"I shall have to see you in my office, around lunch-time. The syllabus for the Third-Years has been unexpectedly amended."

The sapphire irises did not turn towards her, but continued to peruse the paper.

"Yes, of course, Headmaster."

"By the way, I'm aware that Filius wishes to speak to you about a classroom change."

"Ah," she murmured. "I will see him at some point today."

He nodded, and turned a page. The inspector smirked. Minerva felt suddenly like screaming; the outsider's perception was no different from her own, she realised.

There was a rustle as her superior laid aside the paper. The half-moons glinted as their wearer swept his gaze up and down the House tables. Then he rose, so abruptly that her hand jerked, sending a knife sliding across the wood.

"I think I must relieve my bladder. Excuse me."

As he walked away, she clung to the humour. The inspector leaned forward, and turned her chair conspiratorially towards her.

"You are… Professor McGonagall? The Transfiguration professor?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"How long have you worked here?"

"Three years."

"Oh?" The inspector's pencilled eyebrows rose. "I must confess, from that conversation I just observed, I thought you must be new. But, really, it is quite impressive. Hogwarts has a very professional atmosphere. Sometimes a head teacher will become too… personable with their staff. A school can lack authority and direction when that happens. You understand?"

One eyelid flickered, dripping mascara. Lead sank into her stomach. _I thought you must be new._ Who could blame the inspector for thinking that, after a conversation that had been so blank and cold? And that was her fault; the term 'Headmaster' was a wedge between them that would not go away. He was so kindly towards her - _personable_ -at times, and so distant at others. Of course, she was being silly; subordinates were not supposed to obsess over their relationships with superiors.

_Professionalism, professionalism, professionalism._ What a bitter mantra!

Three years, and yet nothing had changed. Had she expected it to? Why? She delved, nervously. All was confused, indistinct. The inspector had left the table, but it was as if she was still there, binding her to her chair-

Albus cleared his throat again. She jumped again, feeling the slightly disturbed blue stare sear her. When had he come back? How long had he been sitting there, watching her argue silently with empty air? And she had completely ignored him! He was surveying her over interlocked fingers, both paper and breakfast pushed aside.

"Headmaster, I-"

He held up a hand, brow furrowed, instantly stopping the tide of excuses and apologies. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

"In magic, one can never judge the depth of the inside by the smallness of the outside."

With that, he left. His words baffled her for years. 


	6. Hours

**006: Hours**

_"Watch." _

May, and sunlight bathed the room in brilliance, shining through the tall panes, making her scrunch up her eyes. Dust motes danced through the shadows of the piled tables and chairs, every now and then catching the light and gleaming, before sinking back into invisible swirls. Her summer robes hung cleanly about her, soft and warm. A phoenix, his resplendent plumage painful to look at, chirped from his perch on a chair - a chirp which was echoed by the birds outside, black specks soaring through a blue sky. Auburn hair glinted. Her favourite teacher stood by the windows, a silhouette against the day.

_"Watch."_

Long, thin arms extended themselves, stretching out like the wings of a bird. Large, embroidered sleeves made triangles against the light. Her breath was stolen away - for no apparent reason, the image was engraved on her mind-

The fingers lengthened, and the auburn spread, rippling through the robes. Talons moved out across the floor. The mane became a proud crest. For one, glorious moment, a gigantic phoenix stood, wings outstretched, blazing more brightly than the sun… It shrank, away from the sun, so that she glimpsed bright blue eyes encircled by half-moon markings, before the process reversed itself - and her professor returned, arms still out in an immense embrace…

"But _how?" _

Her whisper was absurdly loud. His chuckle was gentle, lilting.

_"Practice."_

But her cat struggled away from her, brushing her face mockingly with unseen whiskers. It wrenched itself from her grasp, leaving only traces. Yet he was there, throughout the summer months and beyond, chuckling and spreading his wings. When her first transformation came, he was there to pat her on the shoulder, and ease the pain away. His words remained in the air, with the dust motes:

_"Courage, Minerva."_

And _"you have talent."_

She found her fur, but she would never find her wings like him. There was only wonder to be had at such grace, such ease. She never tired of watching his change, and he never tired of showing it. All track of time was lost, listening to his advice and amusement. Eventually, she found the courage to laugh with him - and then it was a joy, for he was more than her professor, more than a friend, but her platonic, intellectual lover; a mentor. They talked of Transfiguration, poetry, Muggle authors, wizarding politics. When she voiced an opinion, her face heated. Blue eyes twinkled.  
_  
"The cat is yours, Minerva."_

The lessons ended.

But she remembered them, those golden hours.


	7. Days

**A/N: Thanks for all reviews! Hmm, can you guess which year this one is set in?****  
**

**007: Days**

Days passed, slowly, agonisingly, unbearably.

They spoke little, to the cracked walls behind each other, avoiding direct gaze. Hollow faces stared, fingers skittered. Muggle lights were erratic, like the movements of one of the other Resistance fighters, the blond youth who never slept. Did anybody? The weather was spoken of - the driving rains, the knifing wind; nothing which could hide the wails of the sirens or the bombs. What they all thought of was never mentioned, and they would retire wordless, to sleep beneath windows.

Her own window commanded a view of the skyline, the sickening lumpiness of trees. Perhaps the pane was chipped - she never noticed. Her retinas held the sight of the blaze beyond, and the raw bloodiness of the sky, and blues and greens and yellows; a rainbow of destruction. She hated those trees.

Days passed.

In the brief moment when she could drag herself away from the window, she faced another glass. Her reflection put its hair into a bun. Her shoulders felt cold.

_"It is imperative."_

Yet he had nothing on the day he had left, equipped with only a phoenix and a wand. Nobody had said anything, had dared say goodbye. She had leapt up as he'd risen from the bench, but sad sapphire forced her back down. He had done nothing but stare at them - these few who had followed him - who were now broken because they could not. Had the dip of his head been one of respect, gratitude? The half-moons had glinted, and continued to superimpose themselves over distant explosions.

Days passed.

The blindness of the Muggles in the hotel was infuriating.

_"Jerry's having fun!"_

They could not know that the distant storm was not one of bombs, nor could they realise that she detested them so much that she needed them to continue. They could not know that any silence would be one of death. None of them, not all the Muggle officers in their crumpled uniforms, had understood her sudden rise from the table, or the wordless cry of the blond boy, when a raven had trimmed its black way through the rabid sky. Muggles had not seen the front of the _Daily Prophet;_ the image of a malignant figure bent with cruelty, raven on one shoulder, his single mad eye roving like a gun-sight-

Days passed.

Days passed, _days _in which the fight had not paused, in which the Dark Lord and his enemy had reddened the clouds with fire and stung the naked eye, in a War of Magi that could only be watched helplessly-

_"I'm going there!"_

_"No you're not, my girl!"_

Moody's grip was like a vice. She did not go. She wept, and clawed at Moody, imagining her professor's blood spurting out…

The thunder rolled, and her hands were spread against the pane, ice creeping down her fingers. A tremor reverberated through her bent knees. The tree-line ruptured, like a vessel bursting, and skeletal branches were silhouettes against a fire-storm, scarlet and orange around a white nucleus; buffeting, burning, battering-

Days passed.

A comet came, on the seventh day. The guards on the French border muttered of dreams and nightmares, of a giant swastika drawn in the blood of God. Her straining ears drove her to anger, a false anger that masked a hope. Her vigil at the windowsill was almost broken; she wanted to run down to the khaki uniforms and contradict them - tell them that they had not seen, in some wild glimpse beyond the charms which blinded them, a swastika…

Only a rampant phoenix, flaming in victory.


	8. Weeks

**A/N: Finally another. **

**008: Weeks**

"Minerva, I would like you to accompany me."

The preposition had been so unexpected - so _inappropriate, _her colleagues whispered. Only ten years of teaching, and selected to accompany the Headmaster to an international teaching conference! Surely a slight to those who were more senior, and more qualified. Yet the true level of meaning only struck her afterwards, out of the sight of the hypnotic blue eyes…

"There is no reason why not," he had said, anticipating her objection before her mouth had opened, and leaning back in his seat. Fawkes, perched on the desk, gave a trill of apparent agreement. "I believe you will find it particularly beneficial. And a young mind at the Mentis conference is always welcome."

"But Headmaster, surely someone more experienced-"

His expression had been strangely solemn. "Please come."

The argument died on her lips. _Please. _She shifted in her seat and looked awkwardly at her hands. Embarrassment resulted in a simple nod of submission; he had humbled himself, and she did not know why…

So it was that she would attend the prestigious Mentis conference, usually the territory of head teachers and their senior management. The shock and impropriety of it had forced the blood to her cheeks, as though it was a personal irregularity rather than a professional one. In the following days, the self-conscious warmth remained with her, heightening at every glance of a faculty member. The possible meaning of the invitation did not escape the others; the elderly Professor Greer nodded frostily at her at the High Table, and an overheard conversation drew her nerves taut:

"… Deputy? _Her? _My good woman, her years-"

"-Are few. Horace, he is taking her to Mentis. Everyone knows what that means."

That alone had been enough to make her avoid Albus for at least three days. A preposterous idea, but an impression that would only ensure hostility. Worse inevitably followed, as those who felt themselves cheated grew more venomous-

"-_Very _young. But perhaps a pretty face is a sore sight to old eyes-"

"-Well, have you noticed that she's always been a favourite? In the staff meetings. Always 'what does Minerva think?' Or 'perhaps our Transfiguration professor would like to add a word?'"

"-Well, he's getting on. Who can blame him if he needs some extra warmth at night?"

Her temper, ever waiting below the surface, exploded. She could still remember the circle of stunned faces as her voice rose uncontrollably. In some ways she was not sorry; Albus was no doddery old pervert! Yet they had left for Mentis under a pall - her outburst had merely cemented the perceptions-

_Deputy! _Who on earth would want a Deputy without any sense of diplomacy?

"The first lecture is beginning in ten minutes, Minerva. I believe we should make our way down into the hall."

She jumped, forced back to the present. Albus had returned from his trip to the toilet and was standing by the breakfast table, lips curved in a patient smile. Flushing, she stood up. They made their way to the Mentis lecture hall, passing down extravagant corridors, past pompous oil-painting and smug sculptures, treading over embroidered carpets. The vaunting ceiling rose above them, oppressing them with grandeur. Albus hummed, at ease, and she hid herself in the sound.

The hall was dominated by a large round table, fringed by head teachers and their deputies. A quick look at the nametags revealed to Minerva that she was the only non-senior teacher present, and another, more gradual observation made her spot the raised silver eyebrows and suspicious glares. The assumptions behind them seemed to creep over her skin; she dropped her eyes and simply listened as the first speech and round of discussions began. Only the half-moon spectacles next to her made her sit up, and express an opinion.

_He will not be ashamed-_

Lecture passed into lecture, and the days passed surprisingly quickly. She remembered little of the long-winded speeches, only the sensation of Albus's closeness, and the focus of his attention. One week flashed by, and then another. They lunched at various local restaurants, discussing Transfiguration and teaching by turns, telling anecdotes of misbehaving students. Did she value the comparative intimacy because he was the greatest wizard in the world? Yes, that was it. A companionable silence was occasionally experienced, and she would look up to see herself already being observed-

_Please come. _

Why her? Why not Greer or Slughorn..?

Those eyes.

The weeks were gone, and they returned to Hogwarts, irrevocably altered. The comments behind closed doors intensified, but something inside her had been so soothed as to make them irrelevant. More weeks would pass, and there would be other, more obvious additions, such as that of the silver seal around her neck. Greer grumbled, Forsyth whinged. Dumbledore's 'whore' had become Dumbledore's Deputy. Yet those weeks had made her something else, if only in terms of address-

_My dear. _


	9. Months

**A/N: Thanks to all reviewers! **

**009: Months**

Winter came suddenly, a freezing hand that traced the window panes with rime. The unexpected earliness of it caught the students shivering in their autumn robes, and made necks ache for scarves that were not there. The temperature in the staff-room plummeted; the spasmodic talk was interrupted with multiple warming charms, the power of which was insufficient to prevent the chapped lips and running noses. The marking of the day abruptly became the marking of a premature night.

She was not alone in sitting in the darkness of a hoary chamber, dispensing grades for work that the weather had sapped all passion from. Slughorn was in the dungeons, wrapped in the warmth of his own corpulence, and the new Arithmancy professor was most probably shuddering over a desk in one of the towers. Yet she could feel no communion with them; the cold deepened the feeling of isolation. Where was Albus?

Not _where_ physically, not _where_ as in the Great Hall, or the office, or away on a business trip.

_Where_ was he? _Where_ was she?

Sitting next to each other at the High Table, talking about the curriculum, or at a conference about something meaningless - 'international learning directives' and 'action plans' and 'convergent teaching' – or perhaps in the his office, conversing about Transfiguration over tea…

Albus now. Not Headmaster, _never_ Headmaster.

_Albus, Albus, Albus._

She was professional. She spoke professionally, acted professionally, taught professionally. Never mind that her needs were entirely unprofessional, or that the golden friendship grated more with each clumsy expression or meaningful nod. Meaningful nod? She snorted at the essay in front of her. What man was ever attracted by a meaningful nod?

Were there times when the sapphire blazed more fervently? She could not be sure that it was not wishful thinking. _Where_ was sometimes_ nowhere,_ and yet there were moments when she seemed to glimpse him from a distance, inhabiting the same reality, traversing a river of the same emotion, as if the chasm between fantasy and life was one that could be bridged. She crossed a student's answer with unnecessary savagery. The frost thickened. The corridors whistled with wind, and the darkness grew heavier, more absolute. Then he came.

"Minerva, forgive me for bothering you, but there is something depressing about drinking cocoa on one's own."

His presence in the doorway was blinding; the dressing-gown was bright purple, the beard mostly auburn, each grey hair a minor tragedy, the eyes the blue the sky had forsaken - he was vivid, warming, unreal… She belatedly noticed the steaming mugs in his hands.

"Oh - Albus - of course, I was finished marking anyway…"

"My dear, it is far too late and far too cold to be doing anything of the sort." He sat down, comfortably out of place on her demure settee, and warmed it with a charm. "And chocolate is the only medicine for sick souls."

He said it almost shyly, eyes wide, as though confiding a secret. The heat enveloped her as she sat down; a shudder of pleasure went up her spine. She took a mug.

"Albus, am I a sick soul?"

He smiled strangely. "We all have our sicknesses, Minerva."

"Not _you."_

"Yes, even me - particularly during these dreary winter months, I must say. There is nothing like a dark sky to dampen a spirit."

The cocoa flooded her mouth, rich and sweet. Did his mouth taste like that? She shoved the thought away and nodded, looking into the swirling brown.

"You are still shivering, my dear." He seized her hand, and frowned, oblivious to her blush. "You are frozen! Lie back."

Obediently she lay back, deeper into the heated cocoon he had woven. To her surprise, he lay back with her, suddenly shockingly close, tired smile filling the world. A dazed passivity entered his expression. A pleasant silence stretched; the agitation and misery of the previous hours was entirely gone, lost in warmth and companionship. Weariness which before had made her haggard returned, in the form of comfortable repletion, an unsung lullaby. Her eyelids drooped, and when he moved slightly closer to her, she lay back against him, exhaustion a willing surrender. Albus. There was no better bed designed for dreams. The winter was swept away. His heart beat through the dressing-gown, and a beard tickled her cheek. _Nowhere but_ here…

She woke up still against him. Had some knowledge been communicated in the night? There was no way of discovering, as he apologised for falling asleep in her rooms and left immediately afterwards, and she allowed herself a smirk, whilst lying on the heated settee, imagining certain faces, certain reactions as the Headmaster dashed from her rooms, dressing-gown flying…

The winter months continued. So did the cocoa, and the night visits.

_…Sick souls…_

They were sick together, mended together. Perhaps, Minerva thought, they even had the same disease.


	10. Years

**ImSoMMAD - I completely agree with you. Love's not a disease, but the inability/fear of expressing it is. **

**Now this one may rot your teeth. I don't really like it, but I'm really sick of the time prompts. **

**010: Years**

Those wild months would never be forgotten, those months of the initial courtship, the first conspiracy of glances. The tide burst forth; there was the time they had lost to compensate, as well as the words they had thought but not voiced. Small heavens came in snapshots. That first Christmas, walking with him in the snow, and laughing as he made an angel. That meal down in Hogsmeade, entwining hands under the table, and saying nothing as nothing was needed. The dances, the dinners, the operas and the concerts, and the quiet moments curled together in front of a fire – and most of all, the sacred and the profane-

"_Minerva, Minerva…"_

His voice in the dark, whispering, endearing – and the knowledge of what was to come-

Silence replaced the words. Instead there were movements, and the maturation of wine. The seasons cycled. They were suddenly at the Yule Ball, dancing the dance which had never ended, and the war, grief and the flux of that bloody century were _nothing_, for there was this one constant-

Anniversary grew upon anniversary. His hair whitened; she gained some grey. Ripeness came with time, the intensity not lost but enriched. They held hands, and loved more comfortably. Their dance continued, more elegantly, revolving in and out of work and their castle full of children. Their silence continued, as a new language made up of gestures and expressions and thoughts, and even their constant was changing, but changing benignly, and their love continued…

…Moving into the deepening of years.


	11. Red

**A/N: No, I've not died! My life went into melt-down a few months back! I'm back on my feet now, but hampered by exams! I'm short on time, especially for Him Again, but I promise that the summer will see an update-fest from me!**

**A little randomness for you!  
**

**011: Red**

Minerva McGonagall!

In red robes, with red lips, half-floating down the stairs for the feast, rubies at her throat.

Minerva McGonagall, large devouring eyes set in skin so flawless it was like the surface of a pool. Minerva McGonagall, love spelt in her name, in the surprisingly sultry curve of her mouth, in the sable waterfall of her hair.

Minerva McGonagall, 'moody Min' on Rolanda's tongue, untamed, uncompromised, never conforming, mind keened for the present, soul froma dream. Stern, upright—but indifferent, unique. An imagination that allowed conversation to go beyond the trivial, to stray beyond what was right in front of her; a swimmer in the same intense glass box he floated in… He was no longer alone.

He took her hand; they danced under the dim red glow of a thousand candles. His thoughts were red: red for Gryffindor, red for courage, red for the wine, red for the glow that suffused her cheeks when he kissed her hand… Red for the throbbing go of his passion.

"You look ravishing in that red, my dear!"

Red for his own blush, for stepping beyond the polite. He stopped speaking, caught the crimson flash of her tongue as she delicately licked her lips free of wine. The way she gestured as she talked… the most erotic thing he had ever seen. Those large eyes.

"Albus, I think you've had quite enough wine—"

"Not nearly enough, my darling!"

Enough to brush his mouth against hers, dissolve the world into red…

…

"Minerva?"

He poked his head round the doorway. Minerva gave a start and looked up.

"Sorry to bother you, but I was using your pensieve earlier as I could not find my own. I think I may have left a memory—"

"By any chance was it red?"


	12. Orange

**A/N: Thank you, all reviewers, and forgive my tardiness!**

**012: Orange**

For a moment, response was impossible. She could only stare, stunned, blinded.

Orange!

Her temper roared; she felt her hair bristling like a cat's fur on end. Merlin, what on earth…? The blood began to pulse in her temples. She found herself marching out of the classroom, almost knocking over a hovering student on her way out.

"Professor McGonagall—"

An irrelevance; she shoved it to one side. She was going straight to the Headmaster, she was going to complain. Who had dared…? An image arrived in her head, of Albus at a staff meeting, eyes twinkling benignly as he said something about House-elves and decorating—

"I believe the House-elves may have a few surprises for us over the next few days…"

He had said it with an amused smile, and the pompous phrase the documents to the school board demanded, 'decoration initiative,' had been spoken with such a consciousness of irony…

Under the surface of her anger, something stalled. Of course she was going to the Headmaster's office purely to voice a complaint; the pleasure of having yet another chance to see Albus had nothing to do with it… That his company was soothing even when she was angry was merely a side-product of the situation… If the fact that, in a few moments, she would be in his office, and those sapphire eyes would be fixed on her, had any meaning at all it was completely and utterly…

She rounded a corner, wildly.

_ Can I never express it to you?_

No, the problem was orange!

The gargoyle was in front of her unexpectedly soon, before she has even formulated what she was going to say. Her temper carried her up the spiralling stairs on inexplicably weakening legs—inexplicable but obvious—and she was suddenly in front of his door, knocking, breathing herself into rage, clinging to the white-heat of her fury—

"Enter!"

He looked up as she swept in and smiled—a smile that froze when he saw her face. Was that a dash of apprehension in those blue orbs?

"My dear—"

"Albus, my room is orange!"

The half-moons glinted. "Orange?"

"The House-Elves have painted my classroom orange. I cannot work in such an environment!" She paced agitatedly across the floor in front of his desk, and then turned sharply to look at him. "Who authorised this?"

Was it her imagination, or did he sink backwards slightly? The twinkle remained his eyes.

"Ah, orange. Doubtless they thought to make the room livelier, my dear—"

_ "Who authorised this?"_

His fingers fumbled with each other. "Well I allowed them to work under their own jurisdiction—I quite dislike their subservient mentality; I was hoping that a little independence—"

She felt her nostrils flare. "So you allowed them to paint my classroom orange? It is not lively, Albus, it is distracting and garish! I demand—"

"Well perhaps if the shade is a little _exuberant—_"

Her lips twitched unexpectedly; she had to suppress a smile. "Exuberant? Hideous—"

He leaned forward seriously. "Do you dislike the colour orange, Minerva?"

"This is not about my preferences, it is about practical—"

"My dear, you preferences are all important to me."

The wind went out of her, and suddenly the atmosphere was different; he was sat still in his chair, fingers interlocked, expression sincere, and she was frozen mid-pace, gaping, searching for another suitable expression of now non-existent anger—

He stood up, and walked around the desk. One gentle hand rested on her shoulder. The blue was startlingly close, drawing her in…

"If you dislike it, then of course it shall be removed."

There was a secret in those eyes—something she glimpsed, a flash in the darkness, a disturbance in an ocean as an ancient mystery began to surface. The realisation brought the blood to her cheeks; she was glowing beyond the boundaries of her body, so strongly that she expected him to notice. The conversation had changed, moved onto some subtle dimension where any response she made was obsolete before she opened her mouth…

He seemed aware. "Minerva…"

…Closer to, closer to…

"I think…"

….His mouth, the prickle of the beard…

…The broken barrier—

He was drawing back, and her lips were burning, and the eyes were wide, opening the secret, disgorging the truth—

He cleared his throat and turned his back abruptly, spreading his hands on the desk, as if the air wasn't ringing…

"My dear, about the orange…"


	13. Yellow

**A/N: A continuing thank you to all reviewers! Enjoy! **

* * *

**013: Yellow**

Yellow was a trumpet-blow, particularly on a Thursday.

Several years had passed between the time when he had first made the connection and when she had understood it. Understanding was usually a creeping thing, like the passing from animated discussion to the holding of hands. That Thursday—that first among Thursdays, crowned with yellow, which crept over them like the summer, and something else unspoken—had finally yielded an explanation, unexpectedly, like a sudden windfall of gold.

The vale below Hogsmeade was a sea of buttercups, an impressionist painting on a blue, sky wall, made lovelier by the fact that she was there at Albus's invitation. Eyes as clear as the heavens rested on her as their owner spoke, nattering pleasantly about the location of the picnic. The summer holidays still stretched before them; the freedom was dramatic, like a bird spreading its wings. He had suggested the picnic the previous day—suggested it as if it was perfectly normal for a headmaster and his deputy to lunch together without interruption. In the vastness of the world, they were intimate and together, or at least in her own mind.

They were walking across the grass when it happened: the swelling cry of a trumpet, from the direction of the village. The auburn-haired man in front of her immediately stopped, suddenly rapt.

"Ah… yellow. And it's a Thursday, too!"

She stopped, as similar baffling moments flooded her mind. "What do you mean?"

At that moment, the trumpet sounded again, differently, as though its owner was struggling to reproduce the sound he had made seconds earlier. Albus was crinkling his nose, apparently oblivious to all else.

"A nasty yellow. Jaundiced yellow, I would say."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

The blue eyes seemed to notice her, and regain their twinkle.

"Yellow is a trumpet-blow and a Thursday," he said adorably, unhelpfully.

"And what does _that _mean?" she demanded, with a false irritation. "You've said similar things before, and never explained yourself—like yesterday, saying that Wednesday was cylindrical. I remember during a governors' meeting someone banged their fist down on the table and you sat back and said 'red Saturday.' And then seemed surprised when they asked if you had lost your senses."

A crafty grin spread beneath the half-moons, making the her own lips threaten to curve in imitation. The balance between them had changed again; she had broken out of subservience and made her tongue cutting and quick, expecting the quirk of an eyebrow, a game on the same level. He set down the basket and began to spread the blanket, but she was standing, arms folded, waiting… The boy—for that was sometimes how mature he was—flopped down on blue check.

"Ah, senses being the key word! A little secret of mine. Monday is a blue flame and the sound of a hammer hitting marble. Tuesday is pink and round, with a sound like a triangle. Wednesday, as I said before, is cylindrical and usually grey—though I have noticed tinges of green before. Thursday is a yellow trumpet-blow, and a trumpet-blow is always yellow. Friday is—"

Utterly bewildered, she raised a hand to halt the flow of words.

"Albus, is this some sort of silly riddle or—?"

"My dear, it is gravely serious. I'm offended that you should think I could be otherwise."

The twinkle was now illuminating his entire face; she found it difficult to maintain her prim mask. Sinking down on the blanket beside him, she gave a mock-scowl.

"That's not an explanation."

"No," he agreed. "Have you heard of a condition called synaesthesia?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, it's essentially a confusion of the senses. I occasionally hear colours and see sounds, and each day of the week has different associations. I believe the Muggles have the condition well-documented."

The mask was dropped; her fascination overrode the need for distance to cover alarming proximity. She leaned forward, wondering how the sapphire orbs saw the world.

"And you just… 'felt' yellow because someone was playing a trumpet?"

The Headmaster gave an emphatic nod, long fingers fiddling with the picnic basket. This was yet another layer of the enigma, another sensuous mystery. The thought strained her closer, incredibly close…

"What else is yellow?"

His look turned thoughtful, inwards and away from her, even as the scent of sherbet lemons reached her nostrils—for she was falling, had always been falling...

"Well, there are different shades and moods of yellow, my dear. For example, I am overwhelmed by the idea of a sickly yellow the moment someone says the number four. At the same time, a harp playing will always suggest a bright, almost whitish shade, and a kiss will produce a most beautiful variant, almost gold."

Her heart gave a thump, almost of recognition.

"Gold?"

The half-moons glittered, ever closer, their owner looking obliviously upwards. "Yes. It's a most exquisite colour; I can't quite describe—"

And she was forward, pressing her mouth against his, one hand on the side of his face—

—And then running, up and away from stunned blue eyes, over the grass, past the yellow buttercups back up to Hogsmeade, lips burning, the sound of a trumpet sounding yellow in her ears.


	14. Green

**A/N: I'm alive! Rusty, and trying to remember how to write. Updated for Aly--and for Skite and others who have been watching Him Again...  
**

**

* * *

****014: Green**

They had waited too long.

She was running into it, into the blaze, an arrow sprung from tension and now exploding…

_Please, Merlin…_

The trees were flaming around her, tall glowing men falling into ash and painful against the night. Already she was beginning to feel the weight of magic: an ache in her chest, a weakness numbing the limbs—most of all a light-headedness, so that her thoughts were stuck on a loop—

_Please let him…_

The wood curved, an optical illusion. Ahead there was nothing visible except for a vast glow, a miniature sun of kaleidoscopic colours. The terror was a physical thing, an iron ball caught in her throat. Merlin, it had been six hours—and no one would do anything, not even Moody; everyone was back at the hotel, content to sit and listen to the WWN repeat the Ministry's knee-jerk regulations: _the public are warned that the area is too dangerous for any to approach…_

Too dangerous, when six hours before a far more pervasive evil had fallen. Too dangerous, when the wizard who had saved them lay wounded, or—

The trees went out of focus. Her chest was now afire with pain; the weight of the past fury was making her core buckle…

The trees ended.

Minerva stopped. Part of it was simply pain, and another part was purely visual, a reaction to the fizzling plain before her. Cavernous craters dotted a landscape beaten as though with the impress of a sledge-hammer. Hills cringed in on themselves, exposing bones made of shattered rock. An unnatural winter snow was stirred into a slurry--curdled if she looked closely, a funereal shroud if she refused to. A scarecrow figure lay towards the right, incomplete--she closed her eyes. The snow had blushed in places. Magic compacted her, preventing recognition.

Had the phoenix been a dream? She felt, obscurely, that there was no right for her to be there. The earth was seared: blasphemy to know of, sacrilege to look upon. They had not been wizards here--their skills had not been Transfiguration or Charms, Potions or Arithmancy. Greater acts and larger capabilities thickened the air.

Was awe the emotion one died with?

"ALBUS!"

The sound, hoarse and ragged, was swallowed up by the charged air. This was magic beyond anything else, except what had pulled her there. Her skin was blistering, numbing her brain. She realised belatedly that she had called him Albus instead of Professor Dumbledore, but that didn't matter as she would never find him…

Feet which no longer seemed to belong to Minerva brought the scarecrow closer. Her hand bled as it touched the snow.

The detachment went as her nerve endings returned. Some other Minerva rose up in her throat, depraved, threatening to burst. _It can't be you it can't be you. _The snow was red. The scarecrow had a purple robe--a moment of falling---an Auror robe.

"Albus!"

More scarecrows dotted the nearest hill. She stayed where she was, kneeling by the first, palms stinging in the red. A disconnected image returned: a classroom and spread wings.

Somehow the hill got nearer. Her legs moved. Gaps existed, moments when she slept. More scarecrows unfolded themselves: a head with grizzled hair, a man with his robes spread and gormless or jawless--perhaps a jaw was a gorm?-- a woman with no legs. They were not remotely real.

Her nose bled when she passed over one summit into a valley beyond. The wand in her fist, previously scalding, erupted into flame. Thrust into the snow, it glowed and shook, and then surrendered. She tumbled down the slope, into a crater as large as the Great Hall. A lump lay at the centre. A line like a coiled snake extended from it for several feet.

"You didn't do this."

The magic burned, but the impulse to look kept her standing. The lump grew features--a head like wolf's, terrible in a mane of singed hair, one clawed hand stretched out. Before the eye worked out the detail, the shudder seized her--the face from the _Daily Prophet, _then seen from a distance but now close and shrivelled like a museum exhibit. But the perspective kept widening. The single eye had vanished. Something black and ugly lurked in a distorted hollow. And it wasn't just that; more had vanished, more had gone down into the earth under the snow, so she thought how packed the soil was, its composition altered to include marrow and tendon. The line became purple. The colours brought vomit up her throat. Black, purple, white, red. Her mind rebounded off their meanings, creeping and lurching back. Touching spiders.

_You didn't do this. _

She retched without feeling it. The Dark Lord had been human, then.

The magic carried a smell, as well as pressure.

"Albus."

Sensation flowed back again. The Minerva of the throat climbed upwards; she didn't want a victory, but magic as it was before and no sense of infliction. Was she to go back and read and spread butter on her toast and talk and think, as with arguments and tears, how it had passed?

_A memory so picked at that its boundaries have been lost. A Pensieve is _intended _and _supposed _to be objective. Can I ever watch this without the knowledge of myself watching? Albus, this is the guilt you have given me--and it is a guilt I wish to record with this memory. As a witness I was complicit._

Somehow, her cheek lay against the stained snow. _This is not intimacy. _A vertical horizon dived into the crater. Smoke rose from the blasted forest. As though treading an established path, her gaze went to the heap on the opposite hill, a figure half-hidden in snow.

Him.

She twisted, crawling, hand holding the hot wand against the white.

The robes he had left in were spread and torn, wreathing his body like wings. Before she reached him, the deeper damage--and the snow made a red halo, and the beard was too scarlet--could be seen. A distortion in the way he lay.

Running. On the ground, but now running…

Someone kept saying his name, over and over. His head had been thrown back. The half-moons were gone, perhaps trodden into pieces or blown off by the wind. His chest--she couldn't see it. But that was blood--it spread a lot--you could have a paper cut and it would look a mortal wound--you could have a nick and it would look fatal--

It took all her willpower to stop the wand burning. Magic ran across him like lightning. The only reason he hadn't stuck out was because the whole valley ran with it…

She lay down on the same drift, close, closer than would have been tolerated. Words didn't come--she'd imagined hysteria or gigantic, theatrical grief. All the truth of it came within those moments, because before it had been possible to deceive oneself: to think of _loyalty _and _respect. _The kind of deception that relied on her really knowing, and that was possible only because of an agreement with herself. His face was thinner, collapsed. Something had been carved out of him--she knew what.

As she looked, blood poured out of the mouth. What there was of his chest moved slightly--so slightly that surely it had been an optical illusion…

Minerva sat up. Her eyes leaked, suddenly, as though they thought hope the more painful. Her wand-hand pressed the point against his arm, searching--

_Please. _

--Something responded, a warmth which rushed up her arm--

She crouched, but there was nothing--she had nothing with her--no medical kit, no potions, no Poppy, no portable St Mungo's--

The red circle around them had grown larger. Blood pumped out, crackling. Her core trembled. A wound from Grindelwald. Albus needed an army of Healers, not a solitary witch.

"FAWKES!"

No, if the phoenix could reach his master, he would already be there--

Her magic dived down, desperately, spluttering with the excess. The touch of the wound sent the vomit creeping up again; something sick and abortive, eating away at the surrounding flesh--

She didn't know enough. The Auror course didn't cover this, _blatantly _didn't; it left her with an ignorance which had scattered the valley.

"_The Aurors are not prepared, Minerva, because Grindelwald is a new kind of threat. He is of a power unanticipated by those who trained them. Moreover, their speciality is not in Healing."_

"_Then there's no defence against him, once hit?"_

His reply had been distracted.

"_Not generally. Though some exceptional married wizards have been known…" _

WHAT? She rocked, unexceptional and unmarried. The wand buzzed and jumped, threatening to leap free.

Had he meant a bond? Internal touching: knowledge like rape for those with no right. Magic which depended on the response.

_"I regret to announce that Professor Quirk will not be returning to teach this year."_

From a small pinpoint of Now, a bright circle of snow and the sensation of his hand, she remembered the hollow-cheeked Arithmancy teacher who had once sent Rolanda to hang upside down in the dungeons. Quirk. He'd vanished and returned greyer, shambling, not caring if his students tripped him up with transfigured chair-legs or jinxed his quill. Rolanda, Poppy and her--they'd been laughing as the ink covered him, and still sniggering when he'd halted in front of his desk and done nothing. The giggles faded away when he stayed there. Looking. He'd left the next day. Only later did the rumours begin--about the encounter with the manticore, about his wife, about a magic that no one could or would talk about. About why he lived and the wife no longer did.

She'd been dating Aaron What's-his-face from Hufflepuff, a world away from such heavy exchanges.

The wind fretted the side of the hill, stirring the flakes, agitated by some stray spell. Scorches grimaced through them, widening as the caster's soul wandered further away. The sun poked through artificial clouds. Real ones began to spit. The witch below kissed a bony hand and whispered something. And then 'sorry'.

The air rippled around them as her magic reached down, chasing after the retreating warmth. When the reaching became pouring, a new colour sprang up.

As her strength went so did the rest of the plain. She and Albus danced on meadows, on fields, and then beneath one slow Unforgivable. _I know it is, I know it is. _He kept his eyes closed. Her own ran and flowed like the rest of her. Taking and taking and taking. But didn't he know how much? Didn't he? Didn't he?

Green and green and black and black.

She heard a gasp, and then nothing.

* * *

**A/N: Odd, I know. But another memory might sort out what happened :)**


End file.
